


hands and knees

by GlitterDwarf



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Human Footstool, I'm sorry to my family, M/M, Sub Tom Wambsgans, vaguely negotiated kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterDwarf/pseuds/GlitterDwarf
Summary: The first time it happened was a fluke.Tom may be more into the human footstool thing, but not the way Greg originally thought.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	hands and knees

The first time it happened was a fluke. Greg hadn’t thought about the human footstool thing in weeks, except in a few, fleeting, darker moments when he needed to feel worse about himself. This kind of self-litmus was something he’d started doing more often, to check in with his own mental state and make sure he still felt shame about the things he _should_ feel shame about. It was kind of like pressing into a bruise, digging his fingers deeper into the sore spot just to be able to say _yes, it still hurts,_ because if it still hurt that means he was actually still okay, still good inside. 

Anyway.

It was a _fluke_ , Greg was sure. He’d run over it so many times in his head since then, trying to figure out—could Tom have finagled this to happen on _purpose_? No way. The steps it would take to arrange it made the idea _preposterous_ , so there was no way. No. Way. 

What had happened, very naturally and not in _any_ contrived way at all, was that Tom had been tipsy. He was tipsy—okay, probably close to shit-faced—and he dropped something on the ground. Greg couldn’t even remember what it was. A fork maybe? A spoon? They were having dinner together, just the two of them, in Greg’s place. It might have been one of the fancy pieces of silverware that somebody in the family had gifted him as a half-hearted housewarming present. He was sure the silverware cost thousands of dollars, which was actually kind of insane, right? Like, what could it possibly be made out of that would justify the cost for some fucking forks and spoons and knives? Plutonium? 

Look, the thing is, Tom was on the ground, laughing, crawling around and looking for whatever he had dropped. Greg was also laughing, also kind of drunk, and he’d just lifted his feet up as far as he could so Tom could look underneath them. And he’d thought the coast was clear. He’d thought Tom was clear of the path of his gigantic fucking legs and feet. If he had _known_ , there’s no way he would have lowered his legs, even though they were starting to burn from holding them up so long.

But he did. Lower his legs down. And his feet.

And then came to rest. On Tom’s back. 

And Tom.

_Groaned._

Not like he’d been hurt, which would have been okay to deal with. Greg had hurt plenty of people, by accident. He knew the protocol after that. You apologize, you jump to fix things, you do whatever they ask. Depending on how bad you hurt them, maybe they hit you back, or they get revenge in some way. That would have been fine. Greg could have dealt with that.

No, that wasn’t the sound Tom had made. It had sounded, well, weird. Punched out, almost, but not because the shock of Greg’s feet had hit his lungs or anything. No, it sounded more like Tom just couldn’t stop himself before the groan tumbled from his lips, ripped from his body before he could do anything about it. It sounded broken, but also weirdly...happy. Pleased. 

In any other situation, Greg might have thought he sounded turned on. But that was...no. 

Anyway, it only lasted a second. Greg had gasped a little and jerked his feet up, and Tom had quickly crawled out from under the table, the search for whatever-the-fuck forgotten. He sat back down in his chair in short, jerky motions, picked up his abandoned glass of whiskey, and took the last remaining sip in the cup. 

They didn’t speak about it, of course. They barely _looked_ at each other for the rest of the night. That is, until Greg also dropped something, and Tom berated him for two minutes about being a clumsy little fuck, which just made Greg grin until his whole face hurt.

—

The second time. Well. 

It wasn’t so much a fluke as a... _thing._ Well, not a _thing_ thing, more like it was becoming a thing? The whisper of a thing. Thing lite. Like a thing _might_ happen, _might_ start to happen eventually, and this was just a little taste of “okay but what if we did the thing? What if we let the thing happen? What if we both agreed that the thing was something and wanted the thing?”

That kind of. Thing. 

They were in Tom’s office, discussing whatever-the-fuck needed to be handled at that moment. Tom rolled his eyes at whatever Greg had said (he probably deserved it, who knows) and then had, apropos of nothing, stripped off his jacket.

“Um?” Greg started. “Are you...are you warm? Do you want me to adjust the thermostat?”

Tom scoffed and looked at Greg like he was an idiot as he started to unbutton his shirt, which was also. _Why?_

“No, numbnuts. I just didn’t get a chance to hit the gym this morning and I want to get my push-ups in before I eat lunch. And I don’t want to get my shit sweaty. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. You can do. Yeah, whatever you want.”

“I know,” Tom said, as he got down on his hands and knees— _fuck—_ and started to pump his body up and down. His form was shit, actually, but Greg didn’t think he could really say anything. So he just sat there. And said nothing. And looked at nothing. This was _fine_.

After about twenty push-ups, Tom paused and looked up at Greg.

“Hey, can you...do something for me Greggster?”

“Huh? Yeah. What do you need?”

“I need...more resistance,” Tom said. “More weight to push up against. It’s a thing.”

“Oh, yeah,” Greg said, nodding ridiculously. “That’s a thing I’ve heard about.” 

“Exactly,” Tom said, as he started crawling closer. He paused only to push the coffee table further away, and then resituated himself closer to Greg, so he was perpendicular. And close enough. For Greg to...if he just stretched his legs out… 

“You want me to,” Greg whispered, staring at his own feet so he could avoid looking at Tom’s body. 

“Yeah. If you’re. If you’re okay with that.” 

Greg nodded at nothing. Tom wasn’t looking anyway, he was staring straight down at the ground.

“Yeah, I’m okay with that,” Greg finally said. Tom bowed his head, just a little, and exhaled. It was just loud enough to hear over the sound of Greg’s own heart beating waytoofast, waytooloud. 

Greg slowly, carefully, brought his legs down on top of Tom’s back, until his feet crossed there at the ankles. They rested softly at first, little butterfly wings barely fluttering on Tom’s undershirt, but after a few moments, they settled deeper, heavier, more secure.

When Tom picked up the pace and started doing push-ups again, he was breathing much harder than he had been before. Greg didn’t say anything at all, even after Tom announced that he was done and had hit his quota, and shuffled away quickly. But not quickly enough to hide how dark and tight his pants had become.

—

After that. Well. _Fuck_. There really wasn’t an excuse anymore, was there?

They had tried at first. Greg was almost amused at the game, waiting to hear the next elaborate ploy Tom would try to justify playing human footstool with Greg. Oh really, you read in The Economist that this could be a good way to practice emotional empathy? Sure. You saw a TED Talk that promoted this kind of literal posturing as an anxiety-reliever? Of course. Honestly, this kind of facetious foreplay was one of the things Greg looked forward to the most. He wanted to know how many mental pretzels Tom could work himself into to justify straightening out in front of Greg’s feet. How far would Tom go to allow himself this _thing_?

Eventually, he gave up on the excuses, and Greg found that he didn’t miss them too much, honestly. The build-up had been great, before, and the release of Tom finally getting on his hands and knees had been electric.

But now.

Tom will just come in, lock the door to wherever they are, and stare hard into Greg’s eyes. That’s all they need now.

“Come here,” Greg will say. And Tom does it, immediately, quickly, quietly. That’s its own electric current down Greg’s back, the immediacy, the desire to please. Tom is practically vibrating on the ground at the beginning, only calming down when the calming weight of Greg’s feet fall heavy, groundingly still on his back. They both breathe easier then.

At first.

Sometimes Greg will watch TV for a while. Sometimes he will dick around on his phone, pretending to be more interested in whatever is on a screen than the obedience happening at his feet. They can both last a while like this. The longest so far has been an hour.

But eventually, Greg will break. It’s too good, and he’s ignored his own erection for too long.

Tom knows to stay still, even when Greg’s feet start moving gently as he fists himself. Sometimes he can tell that Tom is holding his breath, even, making sure to not move _at all_. Then, Greg will sometimes move even _more_ , especially the times when he takes his shoes and socks off. He’ll run his feet along Tom’s back as though he’s so gone that he can’t control himself, toes curling into the meat of Tom’s back. And each time, Tom will stay perfectly still as Greg brings himself off. 

They don’t move too much until Greg is almost ready. Then he’ll tap his feet into Tom’s back twice. Tom is then allowed his one choice: does he want to stay there, in the same position, while Greg finishes on his back?; or, does he want to turn forty-five degrees and let Greg finish on his face?

It’s a face day, apparently, as Tom shuffles quickly. Greg moves closer to the edge of the couch, fist flying furiously across his own cock now, hunched just enough to aim it closer to Tom’s face. Obediently, his mouth is open, tongue hanging out, waiting. So patient.

“So good,” Greg lets him know, groaning. “You’re doing great.”

He’s been good today, so, _so_ good. So Greg takes hold of Tom by his strong chin, which is still dripping Greg’s cum, and pulls him up to his knees. Quickly, unceremoniously, he slips open Tom’s pants with his free hand, reaches in, and starts lazily jerking Tom off. He readjusts his other hand until Tom can suck on his thumb to cover up the noises he knows Tom wants to make.

Still, he stays perfectly still, only accepting, not asking. 

When he finally cums Greg lets Tom clean off his hand, before Greg releases him so he can clean off his face. As Tom goes to finish off their now weekly ceremony with the cleansing ritual, Greg sits back against the couch and mentally presses on his bruise.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. There’s no mental ache, no phantom pain. In its place is a deep _okayness_ , sweeping into all the parts of him that he’s felt shift lately. Maybe he’s not great, maybe no one is? But he’s okay, and he can live with that. Yeah.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to talk about it and what brought me to this place byeeeeeee


End file.
